Helicopter
by Alex Carlson
Summary: A simple, one-off story with new characters.


set_call_option(Nature_ *call_opts, cardinal opt); 0 call_option_is_set(call_opts, 167)...TRUE Data reroute processing.  
Data reroute active (discprog14)... NETTING (144, 140, 912, 167)  
Located. Pattern set...

If you move your ear close enough to the spinning of a fan, you can almost hear your own adreliline pumping into your brain. You can almost hear the world pausing. You can almost pause with it.

And your eyes... your eyes, if close enough, can just about see through the spinning blades; making out the hovering white world behind it.

I found myself staring into the fan's face for a number of minutes, thinking absolutely nothing. Slowly coming out of my daze, all I could notice was its colour: a baby blue; I could tell the plastic was brittle and cheap from its texture, but still it remained unscratched. I traced my finger over its surface.

I'd felt this before, it was sickly familiar.

It was the same low-grade plastic I touched on transit to a business meeting, while walking through a busy street-corner in Deli. A man and his son were trying to sell off some toys: most were second-hand and littered with scratches, but one caught my attention. It was a little blue helicopter, featuring white fabric for blades that spun when you wound it up.

I kept that toy with me for the journey, eventually giving it to Ellen when I returned as a suveniour.

She treated it so affectionately, and more than once when we were together, I'd hold her in my arms while she carelessly wound the helicopter up before watching the cotton spin; each spin always causing her eyes to dart up slightly, always finding it a curiosity. She took delight in simple toys, it was treated as a sweet ongoing joke between us; I'd sometimes see something interesting that caught my eye, and more than once I'd surprise her with it. However, the helicopter was her favourite.

She'd sometimes make up adventures it'd had, little childish stories about saving fishermen from boating disasters or rescuing presidents from hotel fires. Her mind never stopped.

But there was something else - a quiet feeling of guilt would wash over me when I sensed it. Parts of her weren't well; I don't know when I first saw this. It was in her eyes... sometimes, for flashes of a moment, her calm eyes would portray a sense of fear I've never understood. Within a few months of knowing her, I started to realize she would always be lying wide awake next to me, if I ever woke during our sleep.

And then it got much worse.

Over the space of some short weeks, she stopped working, stopped seeing friends, and before our relationship deteriorated I watched her grow pale. She couldn't explain it, she burst into tears at a moment's notice and then stopped entirely within a heartbeat. She wasn't well. And then she was sent away; they didn't call it a clinic, they called it a 'growing environment'. I suspected I'd never see her again.

My life continued as it had before. I justified the events, I told myself she was ill. I tried to laugh about it when I drank. My friends had a nickname for her; I won't say what it was.

Short of three years passed, and I'd since switched businesses. I was now employed as a 'Brand Expansion Consultant', scouting new markets for export/import potential based on direct communication with manufacturers and focus groups. I had to ask and observe: What liquor was popular in France but not in Holland? What colour condoms does the under-30 market prefer to fuck with in Brazil? Investment potential for purple perhaps?

Life was a maze of numbers and hotels, of buzzwords and free samples. I'd abandoned relationship prospects, as my lifestyle deterred setting up any roots. I was starting to become tired more often - feeling thin, stretched. But I continued - I was making progress, advancing my reputation while learning to cope with independence. And then, as some grey-covering hair-dye was poised for a big new investment in India, I was sent to Deli.

I liked the city, holding fond memories of it from before. The streets were always alive, people knocking into each other, and the smells returned emotion into my face. There was a shock though; my thoughts started to rush back to Ellen, remembering how I'd always associated that helicopter with this place. Looking at my watch, I decided to venture back into the area where I'd originally bought it; in the back of my mind I knew I was timing myself, scheduling a few minutes to reminisce. And so I did, when I eventually found the same street where I'd been some three years before.

I looked for the man with his son, but there was only one person who appeared to be selling anything. I stared at him for a moment, my mind adjusting to the disappointment. He looked back at me, smiled, and made his way over to me.

"Interested?" He smiled, showing me a small selection of leather wallets. I apologised and sought to leave. "Can I just ask?" He said, in perfect English. "What are you looking to buy?"

"There used to be some people here... they sold small toys, I bought one once. I just wanted to see if they were still around..." I said, forcing a smile. His eyes lit up.

As it turned out, he was the son - although he'd experienced a strong growth-spurt. He introduced himself as Faun Victor Unlit; after he explained this, I laughed a little, feeling myself start to relax.

"Can I ask" He started again, "What did you buy from us before?". I answered, curious how intensely he seemed to be listening. His eyes lit up again when I told him about the blue helicopter.

"I see! Yes!" He exclaimed. "I... I have one more thing to sell you. Just for you." Out of his coat, he pulled a small mirror. The mirror was square, embroiled with silver metal patterns. "Half price! 30 rupees!".

I chuckled at his obvious ploy, but it felt good-spirited. I bought the mirror, placing it in my coat pocket as a memory of a memory, and I thanked the man. Walking away, I felt as if I'd reached some level of closure that I'd always been unable to obtain previously; I owned the memory now, and as so I was free of it.

The trip to Deli had proved fruitful, as our company's hunch of an under-taped hair-dye market seemed to be proving accurate. I held three focus meetings and two interviews while I was stationed there, along with checking out the local advertising agencies for possible collaborators. I left, three days after I arrived, but almost immediately it was as if the trip had never occurred.

Assignments were still piling up, deadlines for memos and consultations were approaching, and I never knew what was in my planner until I was reading it with little time to spare. A pattern had emerged: when one becomes so involved in a company or project, you become immune to the outside world - celebrities don't interest you, the weather never makes for good conversation; instead, you desperately want to talk about meta-surveys and market analysis, because it's really all you know. I knew I was one of the best employees my company had though, and I ached for that to mean something - but with increasing clarity, I began to realize it didn't.

Drinking was something I'd always felt comfortable doing alone, I'd always rationalised it. Before every drink, on some mental level, I'd concoct an explanation: "it helps me relax", "I have an extra bottle left", "it makes music better". Soon though, as work began to dominate my life, I became increasingly dependent. On the weekends where I allowed time, I was almost unable to think through my haze. I took to wandering the city at night, making vague passes at women which almost always came to nothing; I knew I was heading downhill, but I didn't know how to stop.

And then, one night, I thought of Ellen.

I checked my coat's pockets, finding the small mirror I'd placed their some months ago. I was walking down the street, the sound of taxis and drunks and nightclubs were driving its way into my ears. It was so chaotic, so overwhelming - and then I looked into the mirror, staring into my eyes.

Interference detected (category: unknown)  
(field id: 'zero-fifteen 4021J, r401)  
NODE *call_op_gen(struct parser_params*,NODE*,144, 140, 912, 167,int,NODE;  
trace signal (10%)...(80%)...(100%) complete defining location -#define call_op(location recieved,FIELD ID 01900190065,narg,arg1)  
REPAIRING

The sound stopped. All of it. It was like my ears were suddenly incapable of detecting even the slightest tone. My heart lurched.

I closed my eyes tight, thinking I was in the process of fainting. I opened my eyes again, and looked into the city: the sound was back in all its brightness, in all its vividness. Life had returned to the city once more, my ears felt blood pumping into them from the shock; they turned red and warm.

I threw up on the pavement.

I knew I was drunk, and I knew it was a bad night, but I'd never felt anything like that before. Something about seeing my reflection had fucked me up, it'd messed with my head. I pocketed the mirror and stumbled into a taxi, eventually returning to my apartment where I passed out on the bed.

My dreams that night were like nothing I've ever seen. They floated between images of calming beauty - waterfalls, beaches - to feelings of constraint, where I'd feel my body jerk and tug at chains wrapped around me. I began to only see colours: blue, red, orange. I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't wake up... I knew I was dreaming, but I couldn't wake up.

And then silence.

Simple, beautiful silence.

I was kissed behind my left ear, and a face brushed against my cheek. My eyes stayed closed.

"Sometimes..." her voice trailed off. "Sometimes it works. The body accepts it. Mine did."

I let her turn me around. I looked into Ellen's face.

"And sometimes..." She continued. "It doesn't."

I couldn't say a thing. I just looked at her, my nose brushed against hers.

"Your signal. They've secured... it'll never work now. We can never..."

I touched her face. She kissed my eyelids.

"Go to sleep. This is just a, a lovely dream. In the morning everything will be okay. It'll be normal"

I closed my eyes, and she pulled herself against me. She sniffed. She was crying gently. She began to softly stroke my hair. I could feel my heart begin to slow, my blue bedside fan blowing soft air onto my face.

I heard her whisper "Imagine a friendly helicopter saving all the unhappy people in the world..."

Interference repaired (category: partial interuption)  
(field id: 'zero-fifteen 4021J, r401)  
NODE *call_op_gen(struct parser_params*,NODE*,144, 140, 912, 167,int,NODE;  
anomaly (FIELD ID 01900190065,narg,arg1)  
re-routed. 


End file.
